


Just a Game

by Lucy_Ferrier



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Getting Together, ahhhhhhhhhhh idk mate, dubious choice in husbands, is a thing that happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Ferrier/pseuds/Lucy_Ferrier
Summary: It had become a sort of game amongst many of the girls, to see who could make Lawrence stay the longest. It became a sort of game to him, to see how many he could sleep with. Priscilla wanted no part in it....Or: How Priscilla got married to a dickhead like Lord Hamilton
Relationships: Lord Hamilton (The Halcyon)/Lady Priscilla Hamilton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Just a Game

**Author's Note:**

> I had Thoughts at midnight last night when I really really should have been asleep, which turned into a truly rubbish ficlet.  
> but it turned out that ficlet was nearly 900 words, so I polished it up tonight (It is 2am and I really really should be asleep. so sorry if there's typos). And I don't actually hate it? but it really is too long to post directly on tumblr now, so it's over here. so have some Hamilton drama.
> 
> I have plans for more adil/toby, I just really need to wait until uni stops kicking my ass so badly. this snuck up on me.

To say that Lawrence Hamilton was the most sort after boy her age, would be both a gross understatement and factually incorrect. Lawrence Hamilton was four years older than Priscilla, in the same grade as her brother. Girls her age, his age, the ages between, and a handful who were older, trailed after him in flocks, with their over-powdered faces, high pitched giggles and softly blushing cheeks. In fairness, Lawrence Hamilton was charming, could be sweet when he wanted something, was handsome in that charming boyish way, was more than spoiled for money and had a title in his future.

Priscilla was horrified by her interest. Lawrence Hamilton was, for want of a better word, a whore. He charmed girls with sugared compliments and free drinks, had them giggle at his sarcasm and dry remarks, would sweet-talk them into his bed for a night, or two if the girl was lucky, then leave them to trail after him in desperate heartbreak until long after he’d grown bored of them. It had become a sort of game amongst many of the girls, to see who could make him stay with them the longest. It became a sort of game to him, to see how many he could sleep with. Priscilla wanted no part in it.

The war came and went. Her father came home briefly, just long enough to convince her brother to sign up too. They both went away, leaving her to knit socks and write letters, and her brother didn’t come back.

Lawrence did. London was still a riot of returned soldiers and wild nightlife, cocktail bars springing up all over the city, and Priscilla was more than happy to escape home with a couple of friends to go dancing with soldiers she’d never see again, if it meant she didn’t have to face that empty seat at the dinner table.

She spied him from across the room, flirting and dancing and drinking, just the same as always, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. He’d grown up and filled out, that boyish charm everyone had found so endearing turned to very adult good looks, pressed and elegant in a navy officer uniform.

“May I buy you a drink, Miss?” He asked her with a wink and a cocky smile. He had no idea who she was, clearly didn’t care to remember his friend’s little sister. She wasn’t surprised, but she rolled her eyes to hide how it stung nonetheless. Just another girl in a London bar. Another attempted conquest.

She raised her chin in challenge, glared directly into his eyes and offered a slow smile. “Tonic water, thank you.”

She was _not_ going to sleep with him that night. She didn’t care how charming he was, how sweet and hungry he looked. She had standards. She wasn’t going to change them. Especially not for him. She refused to be one of those girls.

He did try to change her mind. There were moments when she almost let him, but Priscilla was nothing if she wasn’t stubborn and proud, and she held firm. The fact intrigued Lawrence. No girl had ever turned him down, and he had no idea what to do with himself now it had happened.

They danced. They drank, Priscilla still stubbornly refusing anything containing alcohol. And they flirted. Well, Lawrence flirted. Priscilla held him at arms-length, that slow smile still on her lips. And they didn’t have sex. Lawrence was both fascinated and appalled.

And then it happened again. Night after night, week after week, different bars in different parts of London. How bizarre they appeared, Lawrence Hamilton trailing after a girl for the first time in his life. She supposed she loved him at first, then later she was certain. He didn’t appear to have gotten bored, and she was naive enough to think, just maybe it could last. He still couldn’t believe she hadn’t slept with him yet. It left him completely infatuated. But he told her it was love.

That’s not to say Lawrence didn’t _like_ Priscilla, there was no doubt about that. She was headstrong and stubborn and far, far too proud. She more than matched him in wit, and she tolerated absolutely none of his bullshit. But at the end of the day, what intrigued him the most was the fact that she kept saying no.

So, he proposed. The two of them had been going out for long enough that people had already begun to speculate if he would. Jealous whispers and harsh glares sent to Priscilla from other girls, disbelieving scoffs from other men claiming he’d gone soft in the head. Her father had started dropping hints about doing right by his daughter, and then _Lawrence’s_ father had started dropping hints, about what a good match they made, about how her family estate was now owed to her husband, after the death of her brother. And well, she wouldn’t say no anymore if they were married.

Priscilla was beyond thrilled. She loved him, she did, and she couldn’t picture anyone else in that moment who she would rather marry than the sweet and charming Lawrence Hamilton. When the society girls burned green with jealousy, she sent them that slow smug smile, because she’d won. She’d won their stupid game, and she told herself she hadn’t even been trying, but she was lying, of course she was lying, and she was more than a little proud of herself. He had a hundred notches in his bedpost, but Lawrence Hamilton was _her_ conquest.

It was good at first, married life. All the parts that came with it and the parts she hadn’t let herself have before. Her first time with Lawrence was special, and so was the second. The third not so much, but she treasured it anyway. And then she got pregnant.

Three months of vomiting ought to have tipped her off, but it wasn’t until she missed her second monthly that she asked to have an appointment with a doctor. She met the news of her pregnancy with excitement and relief, more than nervousness. This was good. This was something she was meant to do, required to do as the wife to a Lord’s heir, another tick on the list of adult milestones she needed to complete. It didn’t occur to her that it would disrupt her life, they would get staff to care for the child when it was born, until then all she had to do was carry it. It didn’t occur to her that it would hurt, that her body would change and never really go back. It didn’t occur to her how tired she would be, how sick she’d feel. The only advice her mother had offered her was a pleased but judgmental look and a warning to try and keep up with the needs of her husband.

He’d ask her for sex, and she’d say she was too tired. He’d ask her for sex, and she’d that she felt too unwell, too bloated, too sore. He’d always respected when she’d said no before they were married, and she saw no reason why Lawrence wouldn’t now. But slowly, he went from a gentlemanly “of course” to thinly veiled frustration. “A man has needs Priscilla” he’d tell her, so she tried. But he stopped asking, and she was relieved, but it concerned her, that maybe if she waited too long, he wouldn’t want to anymore, that the need would go away. So, she’d ask if he wanted sex, and a queasy look would pass over his face as he eyed her belly. He’d force a smile, kiss her cheeks and whisper “not tonight love.”

It stung. She didn’t know why, so she pretended it didn’t.

The birth was long, and hard, and painful. The first stage of her labour lasted long enough that the midwives started muttering nervously amongst themselves, but evidently not long enough for them to pass on to Priscilla their concerns. It left her exhausted and sweaty, aching and more than a little anxious. By the time Freddie was born, she was in agony and ready to sleep for a week, but satisfied.

“Just the placenta now honey, then you can rest.” The nurses smiled. And then they found another heartbeat.

Toby came out backwards, hooked the cord around his neck, and just barely managed to not pull the entire placenta out after him. Freddie had come out screaming. Toby was blue and silent and decidedly not breathing. She cried and pleaded while one midwife attended to the tiny newborn, while the other tried desperately to bring Priscilla’s focus back to the next problem.

The haemorrhage was… bad. Already completely done in from the entire ordeal, and the added stress of not knowing if her younger child was okay, the blood loss took what little strength Priscilla had left. Yet, in between the work of the nurses, and later the bustle of the paramedics and the doctor, came one tiny and absolutely furious scream, the whole room heaving with a sigh of relief before she passed out.

The three of them left the hospital a week later, Priscilla having had a minor procedure to deal with her tearing, Toby having been kept away from her and Freddie in a neonatal unit until the doctors were confident he wouldn’t stop breathing in the night. Lawrence only visited once, horrifically hungover the morning after the birth.

It took her a long time to bring herself to hold them. She’d sit by the cot, both boys curled together and she’d watch them, watch the rise and fall of Toby’s stomach, watch the way Freddie wriggled and kicked beside his brother. Priscilla had marked all the catalogues for a second cot, a second of everything except clothes, and many of the things had arrived by now. But the first night the nanny had settled them in separate cribs, both boys had cried for the other so violently, that they’d moved them back to the single cot, deciding all that could be dealt with when they were a few weeks older.

She’d go and sit by them most nights, just to watch them sleep, on the evenings Lawrence didn’t come home until the early morning. She figured at least this way she didn’t know for sure, that their bed was waiting empty for her.

She’d tried being intimate again with Lawrence since the birth. She tried to be ready when he asked it of her, but her body hadn’t healed yet and her mind was still in a haze of baby blues and the first brush of his fingers down there had her flinching away in pain. He’d sat back and sighed, disappointed, and she’d rolled away from him onto her side and tried not to cry. “This will pass.” He’d attempted to reassure her, but she didn’t roll back over, and in the end, he left. She pretended hard enough that she didn’t know where he was going, that she very nearly believed it. But she wasn’t stupid.

There had been nights where Lawrence had stumbled home late enough to raise questions, poorly thought out claims of drinks with his old navy buddies, nights where he’d come home in the early hours smelling like expensive gin and scotch whisky.

There had also been nights where he’d stumbled into bed, trying hard not to wake Priscilla, smelling like cheap perfume from a chemist, then expensive perfume that she didn’t own. There were mornings where she’d wake up before him, see him mostly still dressed after a long night with waxy pink lipstick on his collar. There were times she’d catch him getting dressed, where she’d spy bruises on his clavicle, and on one occasion, a perfectly formed bite mark on his shoulder that she knew hadn’t come from her.

It was just a game, it was always just a game, to see how long a girl could hold Lawrence Hamilton’s interest before he grew bored of her, left her trailing after him in desperate heartbreak. Priscilla had set a new record – just over eighteen months, although she suspected it was shorter.

Priscilla had told herself, _promised_ herself, she was not going to be one of those girls. She’d done everything she could have thought of, and she’d thought, she’d really truly thought, that may be the reason she’d held his attention for so long was that maybe, just maybe, he’d thought she was special. It was humiliating, far more so because she was his _wife_ who couldn’t keep his interest, than if she’d been another school girl marked on his bedpost before he was old enough to join the war. And yet, when it came down to it;

Was there really all that much of a difference?


End file.
